Almost Asleep
by flutterbyfree
Summary: "Blair, we're not living in Paris in the twenties." "We both wish we were." One-shot, fluff, pillow talk, early S3.


So they were lying in bed, curled up against each other in the dark, her breasts pressed against his side, her head leaning on his chest. He had an arm curled around her, holding her close to him. It was what the night had become for them. Eight or nine hours of perfect serenity, where nothing could pull them apart. True contentment.

They'd come home from a party, and she'd had that look in her eye, and before they knew it they were kissing and clothing was falling and then they were having sex. She was almost surprised at how good it still felt to be with him. One look at the man she loved and the fire he'd once admired flared to life within her. He told her it was the same for him, but he didn't have to. She could tell. There was a certain way he got when he was aroused, a certain stiffness in the back that told her he was controlling himself. She saw it all the time- when she wore her hair up and revealed the nape of her neck, when she lifted her skirt just so, revealing the hint of a garter beneath. She loved it. She loved him.

And it was terrifying, loving like this. He was the blood in her veins, the breath in her lungs. She couldn't imagine the day when she wouldn't love him, or he wouldn't love her, and when she tried, there was an almost physical ache in her heart. To love, and to be loved in return, was one of the most beautiful feelings she'd ever felt. It was like she had found a piece of herself lost long ago.

Chuck Bass was what she had lost, what she'd never really had until now. She hadn't truly been Blair Waldorf until she found him. It was as though the essence of Blair, the very core of what she was, had been muddled for eighteen years. Now everything was clear.

His eyes were shut. She pulled herself up into a sitting position so she could watch him. These eyes, these lips, those hands, this man she adored. Suddenly the silence between them was unwelcome. A barrier. She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to hear that voice, low and smooth and so familiar. Blair pressed a hand to his face.

"Chuck," she said, barely above a whisper. "Chuck."

"Blair," he murmured, not opening his eyes. "What is it?"

"I want to talk to you."

Her tone must have been serious, because his eyes opened- somewhat blearily, and somewhat unwillingly, but quickly enough- and settled on her face. "What do you want to talk about?"

She paused. "I don't know. I just wanted to talk to you."

He smiled and sat up, blinking the almost-sleep away, focusing on the girl before him. "Well, then, let's talk. By all means. What do you want to discuss?"

Blair bit her lip, thinking. "What's your favourite city in the world? You're not allowed to say New York. Oh, and you're not allowed to say 'wherever you are', because that would be enough cheese to take several dairies out of business."

"Even if it's true?"

She tried not to smile, not to encourage his cheesiness, but she couldn't. "Even if it's true."

He pondered her question for a moment. The moonlight, pouring in through the window, played off his face. Half in the dim light, half in darkest shadow. "Paris," he said.

"Really? That was going to be my answer."

"Not modern Paris, though."

"No?"

"No. Paris of the roaring twenties. The most alive city there ever was. The men all dapper, the women all beautiful. None of them, of course," he amended quickly, "comparable to the one before me."

She rolled her eyes. "Right. Go on."

Chuck settled back against the headboard, and his eyes were far away, watching the world he described unfold in his head. "Music and dancing at every club- real, live music with bands. Everyone is dressed their finest. The best food at the best restaurants. Art, culture, the beginnings of cinema. Blue skies and beauty everywhere you look. And at night, the sky is the only thing that's dark, because everywhere worth going to is open late. Everyone is so vibrant, so alive, so innocent. That's my favourite city."

Blair gazed at him, stunned. It was the longest monologue she'd gotten out of him in a while, and it had brought her nearly to tears. "You make it sound so beautiful," she said, her voice slightly husky with emotion.

"It's gone now," he sighed. "It's been gone for decades."

"You can still go. I'm sure Bass Industries has a DeLorean or two in their basement." He grinned, and she went on, "Tell me, Chuck. Am I invited to this little expedition?"

As a response, he pulled her towards him, pressed his lips to hers, and she felt the electricity spark between them as she had so many times before. Breaking the kiss, leaning his forehead against hers, he held her dainty hands in his own. "Blair," he said, half-scolding, "what would be the point of Paris without you?"

So they curled up next to each other again, and he found sleep easily, but Blair remained awake. She was listening to the strong, steady rhythm of his heart, the same rhythm that beat in her own chest. She felt his chest rise and fall with every breath, and she wondered how it was that they could be so lucky.


End file.
